A Browncoat and a Greenjacket
by BlueNeutrino
Summary: Two captains, separated by seven centuries and many lightyears of space, are thrown together by a glitch in time. Can Malcolm Reynolds find his way back to Serenity, and manage to convince Richard Sharpe that he is neither crazy nor a French spy?
1. Arrival

_**A Browncoat and a Greenjacket**_

**Summary: Two captains, separated by seven centuries and many lightyears of space, are thrown together by a glitch in time. Can Malcolm Reynolds find his way back to _Serenity_, and manage to convince Richard Sharpe that he is neither crazy nor a French spy?**

**A/N: It just randomly occurred to me the other day how many similarities there are between Mal Reynolds and Richard Sharpe. They're both war veterans who were once sergeants and later become captains; they're both incredibly tough and fight like bastards hand-to-hand, and they both have a strong sense of morality which they sometimes try to pretend isn't there. Plus of course they're both complete rogues ;) I thought it would be interesting if I were to write about what would happen if they ever encountered each other.**

**Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing the characters from Joss Whedon's TV show and Bernard Cornwell's books – they do not belong to me.**

_**Chapter One – Arrival**_

His head was hurting like hell. There was a thick blanket of darkness pressing down on his eyelids and it felt like some _tiaozao chumo de mugo de arzi _had taken a sledgehammer to his left temple. What had happened? There was no way he'd been this drunk last night, was there? Or perhaps he had been, for all he could recall. He tried to force his thoughts into a coherent recollection of what had happened, but the harder he tried to remember the worse his head hurt and the more sluggish his thought processes became. Gorramit, why couldn't things ever go smooth?

With a groan he began to try and move, but stopped as another violent wave of pain shot through his skull. It was at that point he realised he was lying on his front, with the side of his face pressed against the floor. On his cheek he could feel an uneven but not unpleasant texture beneath him. It was soft, but firm. Breathing in deeply the scent of grass filled his nostrils. Well, he definitely wasn't on board _Serenity, _that was for sure. His senses told him that he must be lying outside on the ground somewhere, but how the hell did he get here?

Malcolm Reynolds gave another groan as he tried to remember what had happened. Short flashes of memory were beginning to come back to him: there was a warehouse, he could recall that; it was the last place he remembered being. But what had he been doing there?

_A job, _a voice in his head told him, _stealing antiques from a warehouse in New Cadiz. Remember that?_

Yes, that was right, a job. He, Zoe and Jayne had gone in to pick up some artefacts for Badger. So…that still didn't explain how he'd ended up here.

Mal racked his brains as he tried to recall what had happened, the throbbing pain in his head protesting at the effort. They'd arrived at the port of New Cadiz on the planet Iber some time in the early morning, a few hours before he'd headed out with Zoe and Jayne to complete the heist. Wash had kept _Serenity _hovering close by the warehouse so that they'd be able to make a quick getaway, but quite clearly that hadn't happened. So what had gone wrong?

_The rival gang, _his internal voice reminded him again, _they wanted the same thing you did. Got into a fight._

He was beginning to recall that now; the gunfight that ensued when they'd come across other crooks attempting to raid the warehouse. And then there was that other strange thing too…

Mal was beginning to wonder if maybe his aching brain was playing tricks on him as he remembered it, but the more he thought about it the more he was certain it had actually happened. He'd got into a shooting match with a large tattooed man armed with a an automatic revolver, and as they'd chased each other through rows of crates and antiques exchanging shots Mal had suddenly rounded a corner and found himself facing a glowing white light floating in mid-air. It was so bizarre that he'd had to stop and stare at it. Once he'd got a better look he could see that the light actually appeared to be a glowing sphere made of fragmented glass, and it seemed to be steadily revolving. He'd stood staring at it for so long that he'd given his pursuer chance to catch up with him, and had been taken by surprise when several gunshots collided with a crate very near to his head. He'd ducked down out of the way and rolled nearer to the light, and was about to fire back when he felt something wrench his pistol out of his hand.

It flew through the air without anything seeming to have pulled it and disappeared through the light. Mal just stared at it in shock, completely bewildered by what had just happened and panicked that he'd lost his weapon. He looked over at the man pursuing him, who took a few steps closer and brought up his gun to fire again…only to find that wrenched out of his hand too. Mal glanced briefly at the light, realising it must generate some kind of magnetic force that had pulled their weapons in, and then quickly turned his attention back to his pursuer as he realised he wasn't out of trouble yet.

A fistfight had then ensued during which several valuable antique objects had been used in ways they were never intended for, and then Mal's opponent had managed to get hold of a rather heavy old Earth-That-Was wooden bat and swung it at his head.

That, Mal suspected, was how he'd managed to get a splintering headache and a rather hazy memory of the events leading up to this. What it didn't explain was how he'd ended up lying face down on the grass somewhere. Although if he was going to find out exactly where he was going to have to get up and look round.

He rolled onto his back in an attempt to wake himself up more, and as he was rewarded with another shot of pain he immediately wished he hadn't. A haze of red had begun to filter through his eyelids and he realised it was daylight. He really ought to get up and do something to find out where he was, but he just needed a few more minutes to come round…

Those few minutes were cut short as the sound of gunshots suddenly pummelled his ears. Mal's eyes snapped opened and he immediately sat up, a rush of adrenaline numbing the pain in his head. Someone was shooting at him. Looking round he quickly took in his surroundings: he'd been lying at the foot of some valley, and he could see that the terrain sloping upwards either side of him was highly uneven and littered with rocks and ditches. A shooter could be hidden anywhere; he needed to get out of sight…

As he heard the crackle of more gunfire he suddenly realised it wasn't just one shooter: there were several of them, and it sounded like they were exchanging fire with each other. Spinning round to look behind him, Mal saw movement up in the hills and he immediately realised what was happening. Memories of the war and Serenity Valley suddenly rushed back to him: skirmishes with Alliance troops in the hills and valleys of Hera, taking cover behind rocks and trees, sharpshooting at the enemy.

But the gorram war was over, so what the hell was going on?

He didn't have time to work it out, he just knew he needed to take cover. He darted a few paces up the hill to duck down behind a scrub bush and instinctively reached to his belt for his pistol, before remembering it wasn't there anymore. "_Gaisi wo ta ma de yunchi,_" he muttered as he glanced around, trying to work out where the shots were coming from.

He could tell that one side appeared to be firing from somewhere up the hill, but he couldn't even see where the other side was. Gorramit, he needed to get out of here and he needed to find a weapon.

Searching for another spot to take cover, Mal's gaze fell on an indent in the hill up ahead of him and he darted out from behind the bush and ran to it. As he went, a glint of sunlight flashing off metal caught his eye and turned his head to look. As he realised what had caused the glint he stopped running in shock. Somehow, his Independent Army officer's pistol was lying on the ground just a few feet away from him. How _zai shen de mingzi he ta de suoyou guguai de biao shongdi _had it ended up there?

He didn't have an answer for that, but was just grateful that he'd found it. Quickly diverting course, he ran instead towards the gun and snatched it up, just as a bullet collided with the ground at his feet. With a surprised yell he suddenly leapt back and spun round to return the shot…and as he did so his eyes almost popped out of his head. In the valley up ahead of him he saw two men advancing on him wearing white trousers and deep blue coats, and – the part that surprised him so much – tall cylindrical hats. Now, he'd seen some strange choices of attire in his time but none quite so as odd as that, especially not out here on the Rim – assuming that was where he even was anymore. He didn't have time to make sense of it as he realised that the two men were armed with long barrelled guns – Mal thought they seemed old fashioned even by Rim world standards, but he knew they could still do damage. He quickly raised the pistol and fired two shots, felling both men in quick succession. That had been simple enough, but now he still had the problem of how to get out of here.

He ran to duck down behind a rocky outcrop in the hill, beginning to feel a sense of panic as he realised he had no idea where to go. This place certainly didn't look like New Cadiz, and the only way he might get back to someplace he recognised would be to take a wild guess. Well, he may as well go the route that took least effort and offered most cover; so that would be heading out of the valley. He began to run again, a couple more shots hitting the ground at his feet and prompting him to utter some Chinese expletives. There were more people in sight in the hills surrounding him now, and he still couldn't work out who they were or where he was. He could see several more of the bluecoats up ahead of him, and, not wanting to waste his ammunition, ducked down into a cluster of rocks and scrub off to his left instead of shooting.

It was best to stay hidden. He remembered doing this in the war – hiding out of sight while he picked out targets before going in for the kill shot – and he found it strange how all his soldiers' training was suddenly flooding back. Ideally he ought to have partner with him – someone to keep him covered while he moved positions and picked out the next target – but Zoe wasn't here right now. At the thought of Zoe Mal suddenly felt a stab of worry and wondered what had happened to her. Had she gotten out of the warehouse safe?

_Of course she has, _he told himself, _she's Zoe. She'll have taken down those _hun dan _and gotten out with the goods. And now she's probably wondering what happened to me._

Mal himself was wondering what had happened to him, but unless he managed to survive long enough to get out of this valley then he was never going to find out. He looked out through the bush and picked the spot he wanted to head to: further along the valley the hills either side slowly evened out and began to slope downwards in unison, and he decided that was the direction he was going in. It may turn out to be a bad choice, but any decision was better than no decision. And now all he had to do was get there.

_First thing: assess the obstacles, _he told himself. He was going to reach that side of the valley, but what might stop him getting there? Looking out, he could see most of the bluecoats had advanced far enough into the valley now to not be in his way. A few of them had been left bleeding on the floor further back, but they weren't likely to cause him any trouble. So what about the shooters in the hills?

Mal squinted his eyes to try and make them out. They were trying to keep hidden but he could still see a couple: men dressed in green and much better camouflaged than the bluecoats, but not well enough that Mal couldn't see them to avoid them. He saw one step out from behind a rock on the opposite hill to take a shot in his general direction before ducking back. The shot hadn't been aimed at him and Mal heard screams nearby as another one of the bluecoats was hit, but it had given him the information he needed to know where the shooter was.

He waited a moment to see if the greenjacketed sniper emerged again, and was surprised by how long it seemed to be taking. His own pistol was gripped firmly in his hand and he was waiting to see if he could get a clean shot, but he knew that at this range with a short barrelled weapon he didn't stand much of a chance. Maybe it would be best to just run now? He'd have to get past the shooter to get to where he was headed, but if he got closer first then he'd have more chance of getting a hit, and it was always possible that the shooter wouldn't cause any trouble for him at all.

Mal weighed the matter up in his mind and it took him a matter of seconds to reach a decisions. Now was the time to run.

Keeping a firm grip on his pistol he shot up from behind the scrub and began to run forward…and stopped abruptly as he saw a flurry of nearby movement in the corner of his vision and felt the warm barrel of a recently-fired gun press against his throat.

**A/N: Thought I'd open with a cliffhanger ;). This is completely new to me as I've not tried writing Sharpe nor an accidental time travel fic before, so this might end up falling flat on its face before I figure out how best to make it work . Please bear with me. Sorry Sharpe's not made an appearance yet, but the chapter didn't really lend itself to it. I've started writing the next chapter already and I promise there's going to be plenty of Mal/Sharpe interaction.  
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**The time portal thing is supposed to be like the anomalies in _Primeval, _but that's going to be the only thing that show has to do with this fic. On the issue of the automatic revolver, I believe that's what Wash is armed with in _Heart of Gold. _I thought it was a cool weapon so I wanted to give it a brief mention.**

**I've been debating with myself whether to give Sharpe the book description or the TV description. I've gone for the TV one, as since Mal is a TV character I thought this would make them better matched. Don't question my logic. It may seem odd, but it feels more natural to me to write Sharpe like this in this context. You'll see plenty of him next chapter, as I realise he's not exactly been in it yet!**

**I've invented the planet Iber and the port of New Cadiz and decided it's a Spanish-speaking inner Rim world, as when Mal later realises there's dozens of Spanish speaking people around I want him to take a bit longer to realise he isn't in the 'Verse anymore. New Cadiz is meant to be to Cadiz like New York is to York. I sort of wanted to do a bit of a Doctor Who reference and call it New New Cadiz, but since there's only ever been one 'Verse I just had the one 'New'. The planet is called Iber so that it's inhabitants are Iberian, like the Iberian Peninsular. **

**I need to go and read up on Sharpe again before I continue with this so I get my chronology and historical facts right, but anyway, that's how it starts. Hope you liked it! Reviews would be much appreciated.**

**Chinese translations:**

_**tiaozao chumo de mugo de arzi** = son of a flea-ridden bitch_

_**gaisi wo ta ma de yunchi** = damn my fucking luck_

_**zai shen de mingzi he ta de suoyou guguai de biao shongdi **= in the name of God and all his wacky cousins (play on Wash's "Mother of God and all her wacky nephews". I thought it was funny so I wanted to include it.)_

_**hun dan **= bastards  
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**P.S. Please tell me if I've gone overboard on the Chinese. I usually only limit it to a handful of short words and phrases in fics, but in this one I've gone the whole hog. I thought it would make it funnier when Sharpe reacts to it later.**


	2. The Two Captains

**A/N: Ok, here's chapter two. I don't know what I'm going to make of Sharpe. It's been a while since I've read the books, but I have gone back and watched the TV show so I think the way I write him will be very Sean Bean-influenced. Also, I just find it so much easier to write him as a Yorkshireman because that's something I'm really familiar with.**

_**Chapter Two – The Two Captains**_

"You ain't going anywhere, lad," Mal heard a rough voice say off to his left.

The hand holding his pistol fell limply to his side and he moved his eyes to look at the man who had sprung up on him from the other side of the rocks. At the other end of the barrel of a long gun Mal could see a face set in a hard expression, with green eyes that were giving him a suspicious glower from beneath a fringe of dark blond hair. This man too was wearing one of those strange cylindrical hats - a dark green one that matched the shade of his jacket - and Mal was beginning to wonder if this was some kind of fashion on Iber or something.

"Drop it," the man ordered, with a sharp jerk of his head to indicate Mal's pistol.

Mal tightened his grip on the gun briefly, thinking that since he'd only just managed to get it back he didn't much want to let go of it again, but he knew that with the muzzle of a gun pressed against his neck he didn't really have a choice. Shooting the man a glare of resentment, he let his grip go slack and the gun fell to the floor.

As he relinquished the weapon he heard the crackle of a couple more shots being fired around them. The shots were followed by some shouting, but then it went quiet for a few seconds and Mal sensed that one side has just about won the skirmish. Since the man in front of him was wearing one of those green uniforms, Mal suspected the victors were the greenjackets.

The man didn't say anything for few moments, but instead seemed to be weighing Mal up as they continued to glare at each other. They broke eye contact just briefly as both glanced downwards to better take in each other's appearance. As they did so Mal backed away just slightly so that the gun was no longer pressing against his neck, but he still found himself staring into the end of the barrel that was being kept just a few inches from his face.

He turned his head to get a better view of the man facing him. Now he had chance to look more closely Mal took in the decorative piping and buttons on the man's jacket. He could tell it was some kind of uniform, but it certainly wasn't one he recognised. And what were Rim worlders doing getting dressed up in fancy uniforms and organising themselves like this anyway? If they wanted to fight just simply brawling was usually more their style. None of this made sense.

After a couple of moments they pair of them made eye contact again and the man narrowed his eyes at Mal. "You're not French," he said in a tone full of suspicion.

_What the gorram hell was that supposed to mean? _Mal stared at him, completely taken back by the absurdity of the statement. "Um…no," he said back. "Actually, there's plenty of things I'm not; French being one of them."

The man seemed both confused and irritated by Mal's answer, and thrust the rifle closer to Mal's face. Mal backed away again. "American?" the man asked, still sounding suspicious and also a little surprised.

Again, Mal found it a bizarre question. "I'm not sure I take your meaning," he said a little uncertainly, struggling to understand why or _what _exactly the man was asking. Was he talking about ethnicities, or accents, or what?

Thinking about that point, Mal could in fact detect a rather prominent accent in the man's voice that he didn't recognise. It reminded him ever so slightly of Badger's, but at the same time was completely different. It wasn't Dyton. Salisbury? Muir? Well, whatever it was, this man wasn't from New Cadiz. That only confused Mal even further.

"Don't play the simpleton, lad," the man said dangerously, "With that accent there's hardly anything else you could be."

Mal was trying really hard – and failing – to understand what the man was on about. "Well, if you mean planets with American settlers then I'll grant you I'm from one of them," he said, and then couldn't resist adding the smartass comment that followed. "But let's not forget the Canadians colonised a fair few planets themselves and to someone such as you the accents might sound…"

The man suddenly spoke over him in a tone that was both angered and perplexed. "If you don't start talking sense soon I'm going to have to beat it out of you. Now how about you tell me who you are?"

Recognising the threat in the man's voice Mal supposed it might be best to answer. At least this was a question he could make sense of. "Captain Malcolm Reynolds," he answered in a tone that was somewhat defiant.

His response had an unusual effect on the man, who looked completely taken aback and dropped the level of the gun by a few inches so that it was now pointing at Mal's chest instead of his head. Not exactly less threatening, but Mal could tell the man had been surprised.

"Captain?" the man said, sounding confused, but before either of them could ask another question there was a brief burst of more gunfire and shouting, and then another voice called out from somewhere off to Mal's left.

"That's the lot of them, sir."

Mal noticed the voice had a distinctive Kerry accent to it, and he found himself growing even more perplexed. He turned his head to look at the man who had spoken, as did the man who was stood pointing the gun at him. Further up the slope Mal could see the speaker was a tall, thickly built man with curly dark hair. Nearby him were two other greenjackets who had their guns trained on two of the bluecoated men that were kneeling on the floor with their hands on their heads.

The first man gave him a nod of approval. "Good work, Harper. What's the butcher's bill?"

"We're all still standing, sir," the man called Harper replied, "Well, Cooper isn't exactly standing, but he'll live." He pointed over to where a man was sat on a rock on the slope, clutching at his angle and grimacing as blood poured through his fingers.

The first man nodded again, still with his gun pointing at Mal but his attention clearly elsewhere. Mal was half tempted to try and swing a punch at him now, grab his gun and then make a run for it, but looking round he saw that more greenjacketed men had appeared, each of them armed and looking at him in a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. Probably best not to try anything.

"How many prisoners did we take?" the first man asked, still looking at Harper.

"Well, these two surrendered, sir," Harper said, gesturing at the two frightened looking bluecoats on the floor. "And I think we killed most of the rest of them. There's one left running away over there, but he won't get far." He pointed over his shoulder at the lone figure of a bluecoat who was hurrying down the slope in the direction Mal had intended to go in.

The man with his gun trained on Mal glanced at the fleeing soldier, and then said in a commanding tone. "Hagman."

One of the men with his rifle trained on the bluecoats suddenly straightened up. "I'll take care of him, sir," he said in a tone of calm self-assurance, before taking a couple of steps forward and bringing up his rifle again to aim at the fugitive. Mal had been watching everything in stunned silence as he tried to work out what was going on, but as the greenjacket raised his weapon Mal almost wanted to scoff at the man's chances of getting a hit. The bluecoat must be almost 200 yards away by now and was running fast, but to Mal's surprise as the crack of the gunshot sounded the fleeing figure stumbled and then collapsed on the floor, completely still.

"Right," the first man said, apparently satisfied, and then at last turned his attention back to Mal. "So let's find out what your business is out here and why you were running towards the vanguard of the French army."

_French army? _Mal just stared at him and couldn't even manage to get out a _"What?" _He didn't have to respond though before Harper said in a somewhat insistent tone, "Sir?"

"Harper?" the man said, not taking his eyes off Mal and pretending to be oblivious to what Harper wanted.

"Who have you got there, sir?" Harper asked in a tone that appeared to be only mild curiosity, but was masking the fact that he was actually very curious indeed.

"Says he a captain," came the response, the man's tone full of derision. "Although I've not seen any officer dressed in a uniform like that before."

That riled Mal. Why did he find it so hard to believe he was an officer? Because his brown coat was a little battered? Well, the same could be said for the man's own uniform, Mal thought. Although he did suppose that, technically speaking, he _was_ self-appointed commander of his own ship, that didn't mean this man had any right to doubt him. "Funny that you'd say that, since I _am _a captain," Mal responded confrontationally.

"Not in my army you're not," the man spat back.

Now this guy was starting to annoy him, gun pointed at him or no. The man probably had his reasons to be suspicious, but when Mal was wearing the brown coat of the Independent Army he wasn't going to have his credentials as a soldier questioned. "Oh yeah? And who are you exactly?"

"Captain Richard Sharpe, South Essex. And how about you, _Captain_? You actually got a regiment?" the man said, delivering the 'Captain' part rather derisively.

Mal knew he should be trying to stay level-headed and think carefully about how much he gave away, but he rose to the bait. Before he could stop himself he'd replied, "57th Overlanders." That wasn't even technically true. He'd only made it to sergeant while in the army, but Sharpe wasn't to know that and Mal wasn't about to let him think he outranked him.

"Never heard of it," Sharpe replied, still sounding scornful.

"Yeah? Well I ain't ever heard of the South Essex."

"Don't expect a Yank like you would have. What's the Overlanders then? One of your American piss-poor excuses for a regiment?"

"Brigade of the Independent Army, actually," Mal snapped back, growing angrier by the second.

Sharpe raised an eyebrow and looked puzzled for a moment, as if there was something about that answer that didn't make sense. "Bit young for that, aren't you?" he asked, still with a tone of derision in his voice.

Mal gave him a hard look, trying to work out if that was meant to be an insult or a genuine question. "Not at all," he responded coldly.

Sharpe returned the glare that he was being given with one of equal intensity. "Right, so you're an American who supports independence? I take it you don't much like the British then, which gives you something in common with the French. Might also give me reason to shoot you if you don't tell me what you're doing out here."

"_Fu de aiqing huo renge shen, raole wo ba feigua!_" Mal suddenly exclaimed, and Sharpe gave him a look as if was crazy. Mal continued on, ignoring the shocked and perplexed looks of the men surrounding him. "Look, I don't know what you people are playing at here, but the war is _over. _I ain't looking for a fight, I just want to get back to my ship. Now if anyone can stop spewing this _go se _about the French and all that can you just point me in the direction of the port? I'll be gone, right now, and I won't cause you any trouble. How about that?"

Sharpe was just staring at him, looking like he thought he was completely insane, but Harper spoke up. "You think the war is over, so you say? Well, that seems to be wishful thinking on your part, unless Boney surrendered to you Americans in secret and you've just come to tell us the good news."

Mal gave Harper a look much like the one Sharpe was giving him. None of this made any sense. It was like these people were living in a parallel universe where they genuinely were at war with each other and everybody wore bizarrely fancy uniforms and carried age-old weapons. He was trying very hard to make sense of it and it didn't help that the throbbing pain in his head appeared to be making a resurgence. There were just too many questions running through his mind. How had he ended up here? What had that white light been? And who the hell were these people and what were they going on about?

For a few moments Mal just stared at Harper in bewilderment, and then as something dawned on him he gave an ironic laugh. "Oh no, I get it!" he said, as if he'd just worked something out, "You people who live near the port, a lot of you work in antiques restoration at the warehouse, right? Maybe perhaps you think the stuff you're working with is just toys sometimes, and you like playing your Earth-That-Was re-enactment games and the like, but _I ain't interested. _I seen enough of war, past-like and present, and now all I'm looking to do is get off this planet. So why don't you just stop pointing that thing at me and tell me how to get back to New Cadiz?"

He shot the last sentence at Sharpe with a fearsome look, and was more than a little surprised when the captain lowered his rifle. Sharpe stared at him for a few moments with a look that seemed like a combination of perplexed, disbelieving and cautious. He frowned slightly, as if thinking about something he couldn't quite make sense of, before saying, "You want to get to Cadiz?"

Relieved that at last it seemed they might be getting somewhere, Mal gave an exasperated nod. "That's what I'm intending, yes."

At that Sharpe gave a smirk, which Mal found somewhat disconcerting. He wondered what the captain was thinking. "Alright then," Sharpe said, pointing to a spot over Mal's shoulder. "In that direction. Just keep walking."

Mal turned around to look, and saw nothing but hills. He hoped the port would be just beyond them, but there was something in the greenjacket's tone that worried him. He turned back to the captain with an uncertain expression, but Sharpe was just watching him as if waiting for him to leave. Slowly, Mal bent down to pick up his pistol and was surprised that Sharpe made no move to stop him. The other soldiers had their weapons trained on him, but Sharpe just kept his rifle pointing downwards. Even though there was something disconcerting about this, Mal was just so keen to get away from these _kuangren _he decided to turn and start walking. Wherever he was, he couldn't be that far away from the warehouse, could he? "How far?" he called back over his shoulder.

"Nine days," Sharpe replied, and at that Mal stopped walking and looked back as if to say "_Are you serious?_"

Sharpe shrugged. "Maybe ten, although if you went at the pace we did at Corunna you could do it in six."

Mal turned back round to stare at him. He was silent for a few moments, wondering why the hell they were still playing this game, but as he looked round at the soldiers who had their weapons trained on him he remembered the guns they were carrying were real. Those bluecoats had actually been shot dead. And these people would actually shoot him if he gave them reason. "This isn't a game, is it?" he said, stunned. "You are actually at war?"

Sharpe just gave him a hard stare and brought up the rifle to point at him again. "Yes, that's right_, _captain_,_" he said coldly, "If you even _are _a captain at all. I don't know if you genuinely _are _as much of a lunatic as you're making out, or if that's just an act to cover up what you're really doing here, but the point is we just ran across a group of French soldiers out here in the hills when the main French army is all the way down there." He gestured out of the valley. "And you just happened to turn up out of nowhere and start running in that direction. To me, that looks pretty suspicious. Wouldn't you agree, Sergeant Harper? "

He added the last sentence for rhetorical effect, and Harper responded with, "Aye, sir. I would. Mighty suspicious, sir."

"Right," Sharpe said, fixing Mal with a hard stare. "So until we find out who you really are and what your business is here, you'll be coming with us."

"I will not," Mal said defiantly and began to raise his pistol, the action prompting a flurry of movement from the group of greenjackets surrounding him as they all took aim.

It was intimidating and Mal was tempted to lower the weapon, but he didn't want to be seen to have backed down. Sharpe had made the mistake of letting him pick up the gun again, and Mal was going to use that to his advantage.

"Yes you will," Sharpe said in an authoritative tone, "Or instead we can put some bullet holes in you and leave you here."

The very real threat in the captain's words was evident to Mal, and despite loathing the idea of admitting defeat, the browncoat had to admit he was beginning to lose sight of any other options. He could maybe get one good shot in, but then the other marksmen would be on him in an instant. Trading one well placed bullet for half a dozen didn't seem like a good exchange to him. And even if he did somehow escape alive, he knew there was no way he was getting back to New Cadiz or _Serenity _any time soon. Actually, he was beginning to doubt if he was even in the gorram 'Verse anymore.

But that still didn't mean he was giving in without a fight. "Why?" he asked forcefully. "I ain't even done anything to you. Seems a mite pointless to me to shoot a man who's just looking to get back home."

"Well, you're a long way from home, Captain," Sharpe said, not backing down either, "And since the British army camp is a damn sight closer than America, while there's any chance of you being a French spy you can join those frog bastards over there as our prisoner." He jerked his heads towards the kneeling Frenchmen who had been observing the entire exchange with looks of opened mouthed confusion.

"What?...You can't seriously think…_Ta ma de de yuangu…_" Mal exclaimed, words failing him. "I don't even speak French! Try me. All I know is _parlez-vous anglais? __Pouvez-vous payer__ en platine?_ and _je n'ai idée que vous dites_. There, that's my lot," he said in atrociously accented French.

As he finished, one of the other greenjackets – a man with glasses and ginger hair that crept out from underneath his hat – addressed him. "_Dites-nous__ ce que vous__ êtes ici__ et__ qui vous a envoyé_."

Mal turned to stare at him, looking exasperated. "See," he said, turning back to Sharpe. "I didn't understand one word of that."

Sharpe eyed him suspiciously. "If I were a French spy who found myself captured by the elite of His Majesty's army I'd say that too."

Realising that standing with his gun aimed was getting him nowhere Mal let the pistol drop to his side, but he threw the other arm up in frustration. "Do I sound even slightly French to you?" he snapped.

The ginger haired greenjacket answered before Sharpe did. "Sir, to be fair, I've got to say his French is pretty awful," he said, sounding almost apologetic for agreeing with the browncoat. "Sounds like he can barely recognize the language."

Mal took that as an insult, but it was an insult that was both true and worked in his favour so he said nothing.

Sharpe glanced over at the ginger haired man briefly. "I can tell that much, Harris. It's even worse than mine," Sharpe commented before turning his attention back to Mal. "But the French have been friendly with the Americans for years. I'd wouldn't be surprised if they've got a Yankee spy working for them."

Mal was beginning to grow sick off this conversation. Actually, he'd grown sick of it a long time ago and had now had enough. "Why did I shoot _them,_ then?" he shouted, waving an arm behind him at the bodies of the blue coated men he'd killed earlier. "If I'm a French spy tell me why I'd shoot these bluecoat people, or Frenchmen or whatever, if they're supposedly my own side? 'Cause that don't seem like a sensible thing to do to your allies."

Sharpe frowned then, as if Mal had made a point he couldn't argue with. "_You_ shot them, did you?" he asked, sounding unsure whether or not to believe it.

Just repeating himself wasn't likely to make the greenjacket any more likely to believe him Mal realised, but yet another one of the greenjackets spoke up before he had chance to say anything. It was one of them standing off to Sharpe's left, a boy who didn't look to be any older than eighteen to Mal's eyes, and who seemed a little embarrassed as he spoke. "He did actually, sir. I saw him do it."

At that point everybody's attention, including Mal's and Sharpe's, turned to the boy. "You saw it?" Sharpe asked.

"I did, sir. I was on the opposite slope, saw him running out from behind some rocks and was wondering who he was and if I should take a crack at him, but then I saw him shoot two Frenchies. Actually, he was very quick about it. It was as if…" the boy trailed off for a moment as he glanced nervously at Mal, and the browncoat wondered why he seemed so worried. After all, Mal was the one surrounded by marksmen, not him. The young greenjacket then continued, taking his sentence in a completely different direction to the one Mal suspected he had originally intended to. "Well, never mind that. But he definitely killed both of them, sir."

There was a moment's silence after the boy had spoken and then Harper said, "Perkins, lad, any reason you've waited 'til now to tell us this?"

The boy called Perkins glanced at the floor, and looked somewhat embarrassed. "I wanted to wait to find out who he was. Wasn't too sure if what I'd seen was right, didn't want to risk saying anything and be wrong." He glanced at Sharpe and then down again, "Sorry, sir."

Sharpe just sighed. "Perkins, you daft bastard. It could have helped us to know that sooner," he then turned back to Mal. "So let's say you're telling the truth then. You're not on the side of the French, but that doesn't mean you're on our side either."

"I ain't taking sides," Mal responded as calmly as possible, despite still feeling frustrated. "I told you, all I'm looking to do is get home."

Sharpe continued to look at him with narrowed eyes. "Alright. But like I said, Captain, home's a long way from here. You may as well come with us. Whatever your business is in this part of Spain…well, I think I know a few British army officers who might be interested in it."

Mal sensed there was an underlying meaning to Sharpe's words that the greenjacket hadn't explicitly spelled out, but he once again found himself completely perplexed. "Spain?"

Again, the greenjacket looked at him like he was crazy. "Yes, Captain. Now I don't fancy standing round talking about this much longer, so you can either come with us, or we can just shoot you. Which is it going to be?"

Mal flexed his grip on his pistol, wondering if he still ought to put up a fight, but it was obvious to him now that he had no real choice. If he seriously _was _in Spain then the situation was even more _guguai _and _xingjiale _than he'd realised. "Alright," he said at length, holstering his pistol. "I'll come with you, so long as it's not as a prisoner. I don't much like the idea of being lumped in with them…" he gestured at the captured bluecoats, as if searching for what to call them. In the end he settled for, "…French people."

Sharpe seemed to consider for a moment, and then nodded and lowered his rifle. "Alright," he said, "But I'm warning you not to try anything. You may not be our prisoner, but these men are the finest soldiers in the British army and if you think that trying to run or fight is a good idea they will kill you."

Mal nodded, relieved that they'd finally established he wasn't their enemy, even if it didn't necessarily make him a friend. "_Wo mingbai_," he said, and then to clarify, "Understood."

Sharpe gave him a funny look, but then continued in the same tone as before. "I'll be needing that gun then," he said, holding his hand out expectantly.

The relief Mal had felt quickly evaporated. "Is that really necessary?" he asked, his hand going to the handle of the pistol again more in a way to try and keep hold of it than to give it up. "I mean, if I'm not technically a prisoner…"

Sharpe shot him a glare. "Hand it over," the rifleman said insistently. "You think I'm an idiot or summat? I'll give it back when I know I can trust you."

He made a gesture with his hand indicating for Mal to give it to him. The browncoat paused with his hand on the gun handle for a moment longer, as if deliberating, but he knew that unless he wanted to turn this into a fight he had to hand it over. In fairness, were he in Sharpe's position he would have made him do the same. Mal took out the gun and flicked on the safety catch, before flipping it in his hand to catch it by the barrel. Offering it handle first, he held out the pistol to Sharpe.

Sharpe reached out to take it off him, and cast a critical eye over the weapon. "Funny thing," he said, turning it over in his hand and looking at it from both sides, "How are you meant to load that?"

The greenjacket seemed genuinely perplexed, and Mal just looked at it him with a baffled expression. "With bullets," he answered bluntly.

Sharpe gave him yet another funny look. "Right…" the South Essex captain said, giving the gun one final glance over before tucking it into the knapsack he was wearing. If he had any questions about it, he seemed to have decided to save them for later. "Then let's get going. Cooper, you think you'll be able to make it back?" Sharpe said, glancing up at the soldier who had been sat on the rock.

"Tongue's helped patch me up, sir," Cooper replied, nodding at the man beside him who was now helping him stand and had bloodstained fingers from bandaging Cooper's ankle.

"Alright," Sharpe said, and then turned around again to point at Mal. "You, up ahead," he ordered gruffly, "Along with those two." He pointed at the two Frenchmen and indicated for them to walk in front of him. With some cajoling in French from Harris and a couple of rifles jabbed in their direction the bluecoat prisoners obeyed, but Mal gave Sharpe a disgruntled glare.

"I thought I wasn't a prisoner?" he protested.

"I don't care. I want you where I can see you," Sharpe said, in much the same tone as Mal used on Jayne when he didn't want to be argued with.

Despite being angry about it, Mal decided to do what Sharpe clearly wanted and not protest. If he wanted to get out of here he first had to find out where _here _was, and he probably had a better chance of doing that if he just co-operated. Falling into line a few paces ahead of Sharpe, Mal glanced sideways at the Frenchmen he'd been instructed to walk beside and as he did so his gaze fell on the young rifleman Perkins. The boy was watching him with a wary expression, and as the young soldier noticed Mal looking at him he quickly looked away, trying to hide the fact he'd been staring in the first place.

Mal was half tempted to say something, but decided against it as he realised that being aggressive would get him nowhere and he really didn't feel like striking up another conversation right now. His head was hurting rather badly again and he was just keen to get back to wherever these people were taking him – especially if there might be chance for some food and sleep once he was there. Maybe once he'd had some food and rest he might have more luck figuring out how a glowing magnetic ball of light and a heist on Iber had led to him ending up here.

Some way behind him, Sharpe and Harper fell in step beside each other, watching the browncoat walking up ahead of him with a strong sense of suspicion. "So what do you think to him, Pat?" Sharpe asked his sergeant in a hushed tone, not wanting the others to hear them.

"I think he's mad, sir," Harper replied, "Mad as old King George, so he is."

Sharpe nodded. "Aye, Pat, I think you're right," he replied, "But mad men can still be dangerous. Believe me, I've know a few."

"Oh, I believe you, sir," Harper replied, "I've known a few myself. But I'm not sure even the French would have a spy as crazy as him." At that point they both heard Captain Reynolds let out an exclamation of even more gibberish as one of the French prisoners tripped over right in front of him, and the rifles captain and his sergeant exchanged glances. "You think he's really a captain, sir?" Harper asked sceptically.

"I think _he_ thinks he's really a captain," Sharpe replied, "But I want to know what Hogan makes of him. How does an American lunatic manage to turn up in Spain in the middle of a war without someone knowing about it? Whether he turns out to be sane or a spy or not, Wellington's spymasters will have something to say about him."

"Aye, sir," Harper said, "Hogan will have something to say about him, so he will, but he's not the only strange thing I've come across today our Engineer friend might want to know about."

Sharpe turned to his friend with a curious look. "What do you mean, Pat?"

"I mean this, sir," Harper replied, unslinging his knapsack and taking something out of it which he tried to show Sharpe discreetly. The pair of them were walking behind the others so as not to be seen discussing this, but Sharpe knew that as the rifle detachment's current captain and sergeant they ought to make a move to be at the front leading some time soon. Sharpe wished that on this occasion he had a lieutenant he could delegate to. The South Essex as a whole had its correct quota of lieutenants making up the regimental officers, but they were all redcoats and at this moment in time Sharpe didn't have one specifically to help command his little band of riflemen. Most of the time he didn't mind, but sometimes he felt that it might be useful.

Looking down at the object Harper was showing him, Sharpe gave a frown. "What is it?" he asked.

"Looks to me like a gun, sir," Harper replied, "But it's an unusual one, I'll say."

"I'll say," Sharpe agreed, looking at the short barrelled firearm with the large cylinder at the breach instead of any apparent flintlock mechanism. "Where d'you get it?"

"Now that's another unusual thing, sir," Harper said, "Found it just lying on the ground, so I did, in that valley just now. Thought one of our frog friends might have dropped it perhaps, but it doesn't seem like much of a French style to me. The crapauds won't even have riflemen in their armies, I can't think they'd use a piece such as this, sir."

Sharpe shook his head. "No," he concurred, "But maybe…" The captain's voice trailed off thoughtfully as he stared up ahead and their two prisoners and third 'non' prisoner walking several paces in front of them.

"You think _he _knows what it is?" Harper asked, guessing what Sharpe was thinking as they both eyed Reynolds from behind.

"Maybe," the officer replied, "But for now let's not bring it up, wait and see what Hogan has to say. There's something funny going on here and Hogan's the only person I'd trust to know about it."

Harper nodded. "Yes, sir," he said, putting the gun away and slinging his knapsack again.

"Right, Pat," Sharpe said once he'd finished, speaking in a less guarded tone now, "I think the lads might be needing us up ahead."

"Yes, sir," Harper repeated, following his captain's lead as the pair of them picked up pace to move to the front of the group, unaware that the weapon Harper was now carrying happened to be a dozen times deadlier than even his treasured Nock gun.

**A/N: Dyton, Muir and Salisbury are the only three Firefly planets I'm almost certain had exclusively British settlers, but I expect that the Yorkshire accent isn't so widespread in the future that Mal would recognise it. I found the planet Kerry on the Firefly wiki, and since it's named after County Kerry I'm assuming the settlers are Irish.**

**I'm giving the characters the appearance that they have on TV, but I'm trying to fit this into the narrative of the books more than the events that happened in the TV series. I haven't completely decided when I'm setting this story yet, but it's some time after Talavera and before Badajoz, so Sharpe has only been gazetted captain at this point. I do kind of also want Harper to use his volley gun at some point in this story and for Teresa to possibly make an appearance, so it's going to be some time after Almeida. That does actually narrow it down somewhat. Therefore I think this story is most likely to be taking place in summer 1811, but that is subject to change depending on what historical events I can uncover which I might incorporate into this.**

**A couple of points I'm not entirely sure I explained thoroughly enough in the chapter: when Mal says he was in the Independent Army Sharpe takes that to mean he fought in the American War of Independence, which doesn't make sense as Mal would have to be at least fifty years old for that to be plausible. When Mal replies "Not at all" Sharpe realises he must mean something else, although he doesn't know what.**

**The antiques warehouse in New Cadiz is a storage space for antiques that need restoration or conservation work, and a lot of the locals are employed in workshops to carry out that work. Mal manages to reach the conclusion that since they're all into antiques and things they must be re-enacting something or other, but then realises that if it _was _just a re-enactment they wouldn't actually be killing each other. That leaves him back at square one not knowing what's going on.**

**The automatic revolver that got sucked through the time rift/anomaly in chapter one – that's what Harper picked up. He just doesn't know what it actually is and Mal doesn't know that he's got it.**

**Perkins is extra suspicious of Mal because he saw him kill two Frenchmen with two consecutive shots from a gun without reloading – an impossible feat with any Napoleonic weaponry. He just doesn't want to say anything to anyone because he's worried they won't believe him and he first wants confirmation that that's actually what happened.**

**If any of this is not coming through clear enough in the chapter please let me know so I can work on correcting it. It works well in my head but may not translate so well to paper when the reader doesn't already know what's happening.**

**Thanks for reading and I'm going to try a bit of reverse psychology here – please don't review this chapter. Thank you.**

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><p><strong>Chinese translations<strong>

_**Fu de aiqing huo renge shen, raole wo ba feigua**__ for the love of Buddha or whatever deity will spare me this bullshit  
><strong>Go se = <strong>shit  
><strong>Kuangren = <strong>nutjobs  
><strong>Ta ma de de yuangu <strong>__= for fuck's sake  
><strong>Guguai <strong>= wacky  
><strong>Xingjiale = <strong>fucked up  
><strong>Wo mingbai<strong> = understood_

**French translations **

_**Parlez-vous anglais? = **do you speak English?  
><strong>Pouvez-vous payer<strong>__** en platine? = **c__an you pay in platinum?  
><em>**_Je n'ai idée que vous dites_** = (grammatically incorrect) _I have no idea what you're saying  
><strong>Dites-nous<strong>__** ce que vous **__**êtes ici**__** et**__** qui vous a envoyé**_ = _tell us what you are here for and who sent you._

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><p><strong>Updated AN: (God, I make these things too long.) I'd just like to address a couple of points that BlackadderVII raised with me in a review. Thanks very much to him for helping me with the historical facts because I know he's very good at that stuff, but I'd like to open it up to the floor for suggestions for a couple of points that I want to avoid changing completely but could do with smoothing out.  
><strong>

**Firstly, on the authenticity of the term 'Yankee'. I did research this one a bit as I suspected it was a late nineteenth-century term, but apparently there were some uses of it among the British as early as the 1770's, and it was definitely used in published works in 1775 and 1812 well before the American Civil War started. However, I will accept the point that it may not have been in common usage until later in the century after the war, which leaves me feeling a little dubious about some of the language choices this chapter. I think the term kind of fits well with the characters' way of talking, but I certainly feel there may be a better slang term I am either unaware of/can't recall at this moment in time. I'd welcome suggestions from anyone a bit more knowledgable than me. Although I'll probably leave the term in as I know it wasn't completely unheard of in 1811, I will use it somewhat sparingly.**

**Also, I'm aware **the American Army **wasn't technically known as the Independent Army in 1811, but Mal _is _an Independent and he _will _say he was in the Independent Army...just not that one. The obvious way for Sharpe to misinterpret that is to think Mal means he fought for or at least supports Independence, as even in this context there's no way Mal would have been able to fight in that war. But again, BlackadderVII raised a good point that from a British perspective Sharpe may not even know enough about the war to be jumping to those conclusions. That said, when I'm practically being handed crossover fuel on a plate with Mal being a genuine Independent and so much scope for misunderstanding, I'm not going to pass it up. I will probably try and smooth this out a bit by having Sharpe mention a conversation he had with Leroy in later chapters, which may help explain how he is familiar with what the war was about and has some idea of what the American perspective was (albeit a Loyalist one).**

** On that note, what even happened to Leroy? Did he die? Did he get transferred to a different regiment? Did he do what Hogan did in the TV show and just mysteriously vanish without explanation? I can't quite remember. I intend to try and get hold of _Sharpe's Eagle_ and _Sharpe's Siege_ to read again so I can see more of Sharpe's interactions with Leroy and Killick and get more of an idea of what his attitude is towards Americans in general. Of course, Mal technically isn't even American, but Sharpe doesn't know that.**

**If any readers have suggestions as to how I could smooth these points over without having to remove them from the plot entirely (I do rather want to keep them in) I'd be really grateful for that. Actually, I'd be really grateful for any feedback full stop. _  
><em>**


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